Echoes In the rain

Greg pulled the trigger.

Click.

Nothing happened.

Nash smiled, casually extending his hand to reveal a fistful of bullets. "Looking for these?"

Greg's face twisted in shock. "When did—"

"You shouldn't be so clumsy with your gun," Nash interrupted, his tone dripping with mockery.

Frustration surged through Greg. He dropped the weapon onto the table and stood abruptly, shoving the table toward Nash with all his might. Nash caught it with both arms, halting its momentum, but Greg used the distraction to leap over it, his foot arcing toward Nash's face.

Nash dropped to his back, narrowly dodging the kick. Greg stomped at him with relentless force, but Nash rolled out of reach, springing back to his feet—only to be met with a brutal kick to his gut that sent him crashing into another table.

"You really thought you could walk in here and take me down, kid? I taught you everything you know," Greg bellowed, his voice filled with venom.

Nash pulled himself upright, brushing dust off his coat, his expression unshaken. "Yeah? There's still a possibility you missed a lesson or two." He smiled, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

Greg's sneer twisted into a furious growl. He charged, throwing a punch with all his weight behind it. Nash raised his arm to block but miscalculated—the blow landed square on his jaw. Before he could recover, Greg followed with a second punch, then swung a third. This time, Nash sidestepped, the fist narrowly missing his head.

"About damn time," Greg jeered, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "This was starting to get boring. I thought it'd be too easy."

Nash wiped the blood from his lip, his grin unfazed. "Let's make it more interesting, then."

Taking a calculated stance, Nash surged forward. Greg feinted a jab, prepared to counter if Nash dodged—but Nash didn't. Instead, he drove a precise punch into Greg's liver, followed by a crushing blow to the side of his head. Greg staggered, his vision blurring.

Before he could recover, Nash planted a kick to his chest, sending Greg sprawling into a nearby table. The legs splintered under his weight with a sharp crack. Acting on instinct, Greg grabbed a broken leg, snapping it further into a jagged shard resembling a crude knife.

"Let's stop playing games!" Greg roared, rushing at Nash with the improvised weapon.

Nash sidestepped the wild thrust with ease, delivering two rapid punches to Greg's left side. Greg swung the weapon in retaliation, but Nash darted to his right, landing the same punishing blows again.

Staggering and breathless, Greg attempted another swing, his movements growing sloppy. Nash stepped back, then delivered a powerful kick straight to Greg's face. The impact sent him tumbling to the ground, his pride as shattered as the broken table beneath him.

Furious and humiliated, Greg charged recklessly, his vision red with rage. Nash caught his arm mid-swing, twisted it, and disarmed him in one swift motion. Before Greg could react, Nash drove the jagged wooden shard deep into his back.

Greg collapsed to his knees, coughing up blood as his strength ebbed away.

"Sorry it came to this," Nash said softly, his voice low and distant. "I didn't want to hurt you… but you chose violence."

Through labored breaths, Greg managed a faint, bitter laugh. "You'll never know… and soon… you'll join me in hell."

Nash stared at him, his expression unreadable, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. "You're trying so hard to make me hate you," he murmured. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Don't worry. I'll look after your family… from a distance."

Greg's lips curled into a faint smile, blood staining his teeth. He closed his eyes, waiting for the end.

Nash's hand trembled slightly as he reached for a book—an irony not lost on him in a place filled with stories. He pressed it against Greg's temple, his finger tightening on the trigger. A muffled shot echoed softly, and silence reclaimed the room, leaving only the faint scent of gunpowder mingling with the rain tapping against the windows.

Without hesitation, Nash meticulously wiped down every surface he'd touched, erasing all traces of his presence.

He stepped out of the library, clutching his side, his breath ragged. The cold rain greeted him like an old enemy, washing away the blood but not the memories.

"As it was eight years ago," he whispered to himself, wincing in pain, "I would've lost this fight."